Ballade of Truisms
by ivywatcher
Summary: In which: Moriarty has escaped, things are uncertain, and life goes on regardless while John, Sherlock and their friends spend four months trying to accept it.  Direct spoiler for all of S1
1. February

**Ballade of Truisms**

**_February_**

_Gold or silver, every day,  
Dies to gray.  
There are knots in every skein.  
Hours of work and hours of play  
Fade away  
Into one immense Inane. _

221B Baker Street has been buried under papers for over a week now. There are piles of them everywhere: stacked on the furniture, balanced on the mantlepiece, mounded on the telly and drifted under and around the table, which has been miraculously cleared of chemistry equipment.

Sherlock claims that he's _refiling_, though where they all came from and where they'll return to, John hasn't the faintest.

He's not about to ask. Sherlock is being even more mad than usual, and not in the familiar ways that John's grown accustomed to. He spends all day every day _sorting_, moving papers from one pile to the other, picking them up and putting them down over and over again like if he gets them just right they'll magically put themselves away. Throughout the entire process he paces the two square feet of bare floor, runs his fingers through his hair a thousand times, and spins around in circles with his hands on his hips, staring up at the ceiling like it holds some kind of inspiration.

He also hasn't talked in nearly six days. He did warn John about this—_Sometimes I don't talk for__ days on end, would that bother you?-_back when they first met in that lab at Bart's, before John realized he was actually as serious and insane as he presented himself to be. But it'd never actually _happened _before this. Sherlock likes listening to himself speak too much to shut up for long, and when he's on a case, he can't stop the words coming out of him to save his life.

But Sherlock hasn't taken a case for over a month—has turned them down point-blank, in fact, and has stopped answering Lestrade's messages all together—and now the words have dried up as well. The violin makes appearances from the hours of twelve to three in the morning.

_Potential flatmates should know the worst about each other._

John leaves him to it. It's probably the completely wrong reaction, but he's at ends. John's not sure he recognizes this man existing in the sitting room well enough to approach him. Sherlock's become a mystery he doesn't feel remotely qualified to solve.

Besides. It's not like he's been quite right, either, since—well. Best to leave it. Just until the edges fade a little. (They never will, he suspects, but he's not about to admit that even to himself.)

So John goes to work, and occasionally goes to drinks with Lestrade and sometimes even Donovan, and spends a few half-awkward evenings with Sarah at the cinema. For the first time since he met Sherlock, he's actually living his own life for days at a time, without interruption. It's a novel experience. If his left hand trembles occasionally, he breathes deeply and forces it into submission, and no one mentions it.

He hasn't slept an entire night through since January. Even if he still had a therapist, he wouldn't need one to tell him why he wakes up sweating, with the smell of chlorine and ash stuck permanently in his nose. In retrospect, that's probably what the violin's about.

Days and nights go on, blur into weeks, and nothing happens. Moriarty is a name that neither of them will say, and it seems that until they do, they won't say anything else either.

_Just so I know, do you care about them at all?_

The world seems vaguely gray; wind and rain and a bit of snow wipe out whatever colours were left in London. John and Sherlock move around each other without touching, silently and increasingly easily. John begins to understand, finally, what Sherlock means when he says _bored. _

It's a tangible relief, then, when he turns the corner at the end of Baker Street after work one snowy afternoon and finds Mycroft Holmes standing on the step, leaning on the front door. The change from routine hits John like an impact in the chest, and all at once he finds that he can breathe again.

_Shadows and substance, chaff and grain,  
Are as vain  
As the foam or as the spray.  
Life goes crooning, faint and fain,  
One refrain:  
'If it could be always May!'_

Mycroft doesn't move as he approaches, so John joins him on the step, mirroring his position with hands in pockets and shoulder against the door. He raises his eyebrows in silent question. Mycroft gives him the ghost of a smile and nods upwards. If John concentrates, he can just hear the sound of violin music—real music, not just screeching—drifting down from the sitting room.

"Well, he's starting early today," he sighs. The cold bites in his throat.

Mycroft huffs out something not quite a chuckle; it mists into a cloud between them, and when it clears John notices the elder Holmes is without his umbrella, and the snow has collected on his hair and in his scarf. He has never seen Mycroft in transition before. He looks quite human, standing here in the fading light with snow all over him, and his stillness feels a world away from his brother's pacing upstairs. He also doesn't seem inclined to speak, and John feels a bit like he's intruded into a private moment, so he doesn't interrupt any more than he goes inside. He can feel his fingers numbing in his gloves.

Finally, the tune above them changes and drifts into something more manic and energetic. Mycroft blinks and focuses again, and John realizes he'd been wrapped up in whatever that last piece was. Mycroft's eyes brush over him, tactful in a way Sherlock never is.

"How are you, John?"

_I'm never bored. _Not quite true, now.

John can't think of another answer to that question, let alone an honest one, and he does this man the courtesy of not trying. He thinks briefly of the last two times he'd seen Mycroft: standing almost invisible in the flashing red-blue lights of the emergency vehicle as it sped off, and then in the too-white lights of the hospital, looking down at John through the morphine haze. Now that he can see him properly, John thinks Mycroft looks almost gaunt, the shadows deep under his eyes in the slanting light of a nearby streetlamp.

He wonders how much of that is the unbelievable responsibilities Mycroft holds, and how much of it is Moriarty. He suspects that Sherlock isn't the only Holmes brother with an ax to grind here.

Mycroft's mouth twitches into a half-smile, no doubt following John's line of thought. "I came to offer him a case. Something to keep him...occupied."

John ponders this, and the music above them changes again, descends into that painful grating vibe that means Sherlock is thinking too hard. "He won't take it."

"No," Mycroft agrees, with something like sadness in his voice. "No, I don't suppose he will."

John thinks quite suddenly of the long nights he spent on Harry's sofa, what seems like a lifetime ago, the first time she tried to sober up. He finds that he recognizes some of the lines on Mycroft's face as those of the long-suffering brother.

"I worry about him," John admits. It's the first time he's said anything like it, even after too many drinks with Lestrade. The words fall softly in the snow, and the world doesn't break, so he takes a breath. "Constantly."

Mycroft chokes out something between a laugh and a grimace, so sudden that it seems pulled out of him against his will. John just stops himself apologizing for seeing something he's sure he isn't supposed to. But Mycroft recovers himself quickly, and when his eyes meet John's again they hold more of their usual confidence. "I did warn you," he says with evident warmth in his voice.

"No," John says with a grin. "No, you really didn't. But I wouldn't have believed you anyway."

The violin changes yet again above their heads, and it has settled back into music that John recognizes. That seems like progress, though he's not exactly sure what towards. A car drives by, and the odd moment they've been sharing breaks. John shifts to stand upright again. "Come in for a cup of tea?"

Mycroft looks up again, considering, and then shakes his head. Some snow falls off onto his coat, but he doesn't brush it away. "No," he says at last. "Best not." He straightens himself and becomes more like the man John first met back in that warehouse, who smiled at his steady hands and told himit was time to choose a side. He looks past John out into the snowy street.

"I'm sorry," he says at last, with the slow deliberation of the diplomat. "It was...unfortunate, that it happened the way it did. He should not have escaped."

And then John understands. The apology isn't meant for him, not really, and it's why Mycroft has been standing here in the snow listening to a violin and never going up the stairs. It's not John's to absolve, either, so he just meets Mycroft's eyes as calmly as he knows how. "We'll get him yet."

Mycroft looks him over one last time, and John isn't sure what he sees, but it makes him hum in agreement. "Good night, John." He turns and walks into the dark, taking the surreality and drama with him. John finds himself alone on the step, cold and alone and feeling lighter than he has in months.

_Time to choose a side, Doctor Watson._

He bloody well already has. John shoulders his way inside and marches up to the sitting room. "Sherlock!" he bellows, much louder than he needs to. "Cut the bloody noise! Some of us have work in the morning!"

Sherlock turns in surprise, violin at his shoulder, bow suspended in the air. He takes John in with wide eyes that seem to look right past him, and then he blinks.

"Oh," Sherlock says, voice gravelly from disuse. "Sorry." He puts down the violin and bow and rolls his shoulders to ease the ache. His lips twitch into a bit of a smile. When he meets John's eyes, it's _him _again. "I did warn you."

John thinks of the weight of the gun in his hand, steady and true and still. He thinks of his feet pounding asphalt, free of stiffness and pain after months of frustration. He thinks of late night Chinese and desperate terror and giggling and _aliveness._

He thinks of the pool and the deep, steely look in Sherlock's eyes, the heat of the explosion on his back and the sudden jolt of the water as colour and sound roared out above their heads, and he has never been so grateful for Sherlock Holmes as he is right this minute, standing in the room with him. He does not say the name of Moriarty, because he realizes that Sherlock has in fact been saying it in silences and violin sonatas every night for weeks.

"It's fine," he says with a little shrug, and he smiles because it's easy to. "It's all fine." And it is, even when it isn't, because it's them. Sherlock understands, of course he does, and that's enough.

When he finally goes to bed that night, John still has nightmares, but when he wakes at three in the morning, his hands are steady and the flat is silent. He turns around in bed and falls right back to sleep.

* * *

**Author's Note: Once again, I return to Sherlock and poetry by William Ernest Henley, because apparently my brain has trouble separating them now. The stanzas here are from his "Ballade of Truisms", which is obviously where I got my title from. The next three chapters should go up pretty regularly. In the meantime, thanks for your reading, and feel free to tell me how I did. Cheers!**


	2. March

_**March**_

_Though the earth be green and __gay__  
Though, they say,  
Man the cup of heaven may drain;  
Though, his little world to sway,  
He display  
Hoard on hoard of pith and brain: _

It's been one of those odd, stir-crazy weeks, when John is off work and Sherlock is between cases. They have both been going a bit mad trapped in the flat because of the torrential rain. The downpour finally drizzles to a stop on Wednesday morning; as soon as the sun starts coming through, John is up and out of his chair and reaching for his jacket. "Going out," he tells Sherlock's recumbent form on the sofa, and makes a break for the stairs.

The air outside is wonderful and fresh, still soaked with rain and the smell of growing green things, even in the middle of Westminster. It presses in on him, cool and damp and refreshing, and the world seems a little less frantic than before. He heads for the shop, because he needs somewhere to go. It's a relief to have something to do.

Coming out again, bags in hand, John pauses to take a deep, cleansing breath, and feels some of the tension leak out of his shoulders. Sherlock has been quiet over the last few days—a little _too _quiet, thinking about something far back and deep inside his own head where John can't possibly reach it.

They'd talked about it briefly. About him, Moriarty, because Moriarty is always running under their thoughts now, like a program that takes up memory whether you have it open or not. John feels it in his gut and his bones and the worsened ache in his right shoulder, but Sherlock _processes _it, and thinks and thinks until he runs up short again, bereft of data. It's made the flat seem cramped and stuffy, and far too small for the two them.

John's learned to recognize it, both in Sherlock and himself: the whir of tight-strung energy, vibrating under the skin. Not healthy, really, not for either of them, but until they catch up with Moriarty and-

John realizes his fingers are clenched around the bags in his hands, and makes an effort to loosen them and let the blood flow. They're perfectly steady. For once he doesn't take much comfort in that. He's ready to act, every molecule of him, but there's _nothing to do_, no clues to solve or cabbies to shoot, and the adrenaline sours to uselessness in John's veins. He wonders what Mycroft would say to that, and knows he'll never ask for fear of getting an answer about himself that he doesn't quite want to hear just now. _You miss it._

Life goes on, with work and cases and Chinese, and they wait. Except on days like this, John thinks they're both getting a little better at just breathing through it.

_ When you walk with Sherlock Holmes, you see the battlefield._

He rounds the corner of Baker Street just in time to see Lestrade's car skid to a stop in front of 221B. John's pulse spikes in alarm, but surely it wouldn't be—Sherlock would have called, or Mycroft, if-

There's a confusing moment when all three of them hit the door at once: Sherlock coming out, coat half-on, and Lestrade and John coming in from different directions. Lestrade gives John a curt nod and then turns to Sherlock and says, "Jonas Oldacre."

"Really," Sherlock says with interest. John releases a pent-up breath, though whether it's relief or disappointment, he's not sure. Sherlock steps back to let them through. Lestrade snags one of the bags out of John's hands and catapults up the stairs before he manages to protest.

Lestrade puts the bag down on the table and starts to unload packages of biscuits. He rummages through cupboards until he finds an empty space and stacks them in, all without speaking. John stands there confused until he realizes that Lestrade is waiting for Sherlock to deduce it, like a test. All John sees is Lestrade's usual easy stance and a little twinkle of mischief in his eye, but Sherlock's eyes are narrowed, cataloging a thousand other details at the speed of thought.

"Dead, then," he says abruptly. "Murdered, or you wouldn't be here. Today or yesterday. Not in London, though. Where?"

"West Sussex, of all places. Found not two hours ago."

"_Really," _Sherlock says again. His gaze sharpens on Lestrade with new intensity. "What else?"

Lestrade props himself against a counter and runs a tired hand through his hair. "John McFarlen died recently. Heart attack."

Sherlock's eyes widen. "_Oh,_" he says with something like glee. "Oh, he didn't."

This conversation stopped making sense to John about five minutes ago, and today that bothers him. "Sorry," he interrupts. "Who?"

"I'll go pack," Sherlock says, and whirls off to his bedroom. John and Lestrade share an understanding glance that has the weight of several sympathetic conversations behind it. The Inspector proceeds to help John with the rest of the groceries anyway.

"Jonas Oldacre was a contractor we ran into three years ago. Tried to frame the son of his ex-lover for his own death. Did a pretty job of it, too—had all the evidence lined up, and then built himself a little room in the back of his own house to hide out in."

"He very nearly succeeded," Sherlock adds as he comes back into the kitchen, carry-bag in hand. "Lestrade was convinced that the unlucky John Hector McFarlane was the murderer of an entirely alive and criminal man."

Lestrade shakes his head ruefully. "Yeah, well, I didn't count on Sherlock bloody Holmes showing up with a bone fragment analysis and a bushel of firewood, now did I?" There's something in his tone—a bit of the history he shares with Sherlock that John doesn't fully understand—that keeps that remark from being funny in the slightest.

"He was brilliant," Lestrade continues, as if the man himself isn't in the room. "Couldn't convict Oldacre, in the end—didn't stand up to a jury, all circumstantial—but it was something to watch."

Sherlock stops dead in the act of throwing a magnifying glass into his bag and stares at Lestrade, as surprised as John has ever seen him. It seems like a bit of an over-reaction, because really, _Sherlock Holmes is a great man. _Except—well, Sherlock was actually out of the room for that, wasn't he. Now Lestrade looks a little caught out, like he hadn't meant to say that out loud at all. Not for the first time, John realizes these two have a relationship full of unspoken barriers that are entirely invisible until someone crosses one.

Lestrade stares back at Sherlock, and then clears his throat uncomfortably. "Oh, come off it." There's something like affection beneath the gruffness. "Let's get moving, we've got a drive ahead of us."

Sherlock grins at John, his eyes alive with the case and maybe a little happiness. "Coming?"

He doesn't have to ask, but John is almost glad he does, because it gives him the chance to say, "Of course," and walk down to the car without a second of hesitation.

_Autumn brings a mist and rain  
That constrain  
Him and his to know decay,  
Where undimmed the lights that wane  
Would remain,  
If it could be always May._

And so it is that John finds himself leaning against a crumbling stone wall in a damp green field near Sullington, in the middle of a Wednesday in March. The crime scene, such as it is, takes up the north corner of the field, where Oldacre's body was discovered this morning. The mist hasn't burned off entirely here; moisture hangs off grass and leaf in huge droplets, and the air feels thick in his lungs. His feet are already soaking through his shoes.

The change of scenery is doing strange things to John's thoughts. He nearly dozed off during the two-hour drive down, and he hasn't managed to shake the surreality of almost-sleep from his mind yet. He's content to stand out of the way and watch Sherlock work. The situation should be annoying and inconvenient and lonely, but he can only find it comforting, a sign of things returning back to their own peculiar definition of normal. The thought calms him unexpectedly, and he finds that he can think more clearly in the resulting mental quiet.

It seems wrong, somehow, to be away from London. John doesn't have the focus to be on edge right now, but he feels _uneasy_, like they might miss something important while they're away. He's starting to get tired of the tension. He takes a long, careful breath, full of the smell of dew and grass, and buries the frustration somewhere deep inside, where he'll be able to find it later.

He's so intent on his own presence that he startles when Lestrade wanders over. The other man lets out a sigh and props himself on the wall right next to John, their arms nearly brushing. Lestrade's pants are soaked through up to the knees, and Sherlock must have had him bending over to look at something, because there's water beading in his hair. It says something about the man that he looks just as comfortable in his own skin here in the middle of a field as he does in the middle of Scotland Yard. It's one of the many things John has come to like about him.

Lestrade reaches into the pack he's been carrying around all morning, and removes a thermos and two cups. He pours one for John and hands it over without asking. The smell of warm cider and steam is heavenly. "Thank you," he says with feeling.

"Cheers," Lestrade returns easily, and they click their mugs together before drinking. There isn't much to celebrate, really, but the moment of shared idiocy makes John grin a little.

John has spent a fair bit of time with Lestrade over the last few months, between cases and reports and drinks at the pub. For men of their age and experience, it's something like the start of a friendship, or at least an acquaintance comfortable enough that they're content to stand here, shoulder to shoulder, and not have to say much.

Over in the corner, Sherlock hops onto the wall and balances there with his hands on his hips. He glares down at the patch of ground before him like it's being purposefully uncooperative. Lestrade huffs out a chuckle. "The rain's turned this place into a bloody bog. Not much there for him to find."

"He certainly seems determined to solve this one." John doesn't quite make it a question, but Lestrade nods in agreement anyway.

"You don't always get them," Lestrade says slowly. "That's something you learn, when you've done this job long enough. The best evidence on earth, the tightest case, and there are still times when some tosser gets off on a bloody technicality. Oldacre was one of those. Sherlock took it as a personal insult to his own brilliance, or something."

John can't think of a reply that doesn't sound trite, so he doesn't offer one. They watch Sherlock a bit longer, until suddenly he gives a cry of satisfaction and dives back into the grass again, magnifying glass in hand. "Do you ever wonder what he sees, when he gets like that?"

Lestrade hums thoughtfully, eyes still trained on Sherlock. "Sometimes. God knows, it's easier to guess at when he's sober." He blinks in surprise, like he didn't expect those words to come out, and glances over at John a little guiltily. "Sorry."

John feels his brow wrinkle in confusion. "For what?"

Lestrade shakes his head and gusts out another sigh. "Doesn't seem right to bring it up, not when-" he gestures over at Sherlock with his empty mug, though what exactly he's trying to encompass, John's not sure. "Well. Seems he's gotten it straightened out, more or less. I probably remind him too much as it is."

John flashes back to the one "reminder" he'd seen-_It's a drugs bust!-_and thinks Lestrade's probably both right and wrong about that. It seemed cruel, at the time, but now he wonders.

He's never known the Sherlock that first met Lestrade. There've been no serious drugs or substances since John has moved into Baker Street, he's made sure. Sherlock is so complex and difficult on his own, it's hard to imagine him on a high, and then a crash. From the way most of the Yard reacts to Sherlock now, John has the feeling that he was unbearable, probably to the point of being deeply cruel. Lestrade has apparently suffered through it all on even keel, with the result that Sherlock tolerates and even trusts him far past his usual capacity for either.

"I think he needs it, sometimes," John says at last. "I don't—I mean, you've been there, with him. He needs someone to remember for him." _You know him better than I do, _he'd told Lestrade the first day. That's not true now, and Lestrade recognized it quicker than John did. But it used to be, and that's so important that John can't even find words for it.

"What was he like?" the words escape before he can stop them. He's never asked before, made a point not to, just like Lestrade has never asked about illegal guns or body parts in the freezer. John back-peddles immediately. "Sorry, I don't-"

"He was brilliant," Lestrade murmurs, with a little shake of his head. "An absolute bloody mess. Couldn't string two words together, half the time, and he couldn't sit still for ten seconds. He'd tear you to pieces just to see you squirm. But he could make sense of anything, if you put him in a room with a body." He holds John's gaze, finally, and his dark eyes are steady. "Half the time I thought he was absolutely mad, and the other half I thought _I _was, for thinking he could-"

Neither of them can find a way to break the silence that settles then, and John understands now why Lestrade never says those things aloud. He carries heavy truths, for both Sherlock and himself.

Lestrade had been the one to pull them from the pool. John can still feel the cold press of broken tiles against his cheek and the sting of chlorine in his eyes as he lay gasping on the floor. He remembers Lestrade's hand firm on the back of his neck, and he can still taste the splash of luke-warm water as the Inspector grabbed one of Sherlock's arms and helped to roll him onto the tile next to John. It seems like a lifetime ago.

John returns to the moment as the sun breaks through high above them. Watery gray light shines down and sends the dewdrops sparkling. Lestrade reaches up to ruffle the water out of his hair; the drops fly off sparkling in the reflected sunshine. John sees the grays in his hair and the tired lines around his eyes, and he's grateful.

Because for all that Sherlock mocks him, Lestrade has turned out to be completely right, not once but twice. He saw the great man in a strung-out, brilliant junky with a burning need to prove himself. And he sees the good man in Sherlock Holmes, the self-titled sociopath with a biting wit and a deep, all-consuming need to see right done at any cost.

"Thank you," John says at last, and he means it for a great many things. Lestrade turns to meet his eyes, and something of weight passes between them, like understanding.

"Don't mention it," Lestrade says quietly. And John won't, not any of it, because he has begun to understand that when in comes to Sherlock Holmes, not all things can be said.

A cry of triumph interrupts them, and they both turn to see Sherlock springing to his feet, with something clutched in his hands like a battle flag.

"He's solved it," John says with a smile.

Lestrade snorts. "'Course he has. Why do you think I bring him?" He collects John's mug back and slings his bag over his shoulder, and they head out across the field so Sherlock can show them three hair fibers caught on a plant and pour out his string of deductions to an appreciative audience of two.

* * *

**Author's Note: William Ernest Henley's "Ballade of Truisms" provides the title and the stanzas. I own none of these characters, more's the pity. This story is proving to be a bit of a challenge, which I really enjoy. As always, your reading time is appreciated, and your comments are welcomed. How did I do with Lestrade? Third part up soon. Cheers!**


	3. April

_**April**_

_YEA, alas, must turn to NAY,  
Flesh to clay.  
Chance and Time are ever twain.  
Men may scoff, and men may pray,  
But they pay  
Every pleasure with a pain._

The entire second week of April gets dissolved into one long string of crime scenes and gray skies and freezing wind. Sherlock is at the top of his game, hunting down the members of a crime ring who've been running about as house cleaners. John's not yet clear on all the details—never is, when Sherlock's on one of his highs and the solution hasn't come to hand yet—but Lestrade seemed optimistic about their chances this morning, and optimism from Lestrade is a rare thing.

They end up in a cab, dashing from one piece of town to the next; the rain beats sideways into the windows, and John leans against the cool plastic of the door and watches Sherlock in the gray half-light as they slough back to Baker Street through Saturday traffic. His skin is tinted silver-white from the light, leaving him oddly monochromatic and unreal before John's eyes, back lit by the rain and the black polyester of the cab. There are dark smudges around his eyes from lack of sleep, and John thinks he looks a tired, even thinner than usual. His eyes are focused somewhere far away, outside of the cab and the rain and his own skin. Not for the first time, John wonders if one day Sherlock will just use himself into oblivion, and there'll be nothing left; all the gray matter will evaporate out into deductions, and leave a malnourished shell behind.

The thought is heavier than John wants today; he shakes it off and settles back into the moment, content to watch and try to process a bit.

This case is the sort of thing Sherlock lives for, and John is already writing it up in his head, trying to weed out the important details. Three seemingly unconnected murders, all of owners or occupants of office buildings that are near or in financial districts. A string of petty thefts. The confusing story of Jabez Wilson, a tubby, red-headed pawn shop owner with a new house cleaner and an invitation to a gentleman's club that gets him out of the house every day from one to three. They must connect, somehow, but only Sherlock seems to have a clue.

Sherlock's been vibrating with excitement from the start of this one, his senses focused to a razor-sharp quickness that's even been leaving John a little breathless, trying to catch up. John is pretty sure he knows why, and here in the warm, close atmosphere of the cab, the world feels quiet and small enough for him to take a shallow breath of the muggy air and murmur, "You think it's him, don't you. Moriarty."

The name is awkward on his lips, like it doesn't want to form. But it's just a word, and it doesn't send shocks into the air or through his bones like it used to.

Sherlock looks over at him and his lips curl up into something like a smile before it fades away again. "Maybe," he murmurs lowly. His eyes hold John's steadily. "It has some of his organization, but there's something missing." John's eyebrows raise, and Sherlock shakes his head and returns his gaze out the window. "There's a lack of..._elegance_, in this. There's little drama." John opens his mouth to say something a little more realistic, but Sherlock waves him off with fluttering fingers. "Really, John, you've seen it. To people like him and me, this is an _art. _These crimes have all the technical certainty of Moriarty, but they aren't his brush strokes."

John _does _understand, or he's begun to, and he's not sure what that says about him and the life he's chosen now. He wonders if the man he was before—before Baker Street, before _Afghanistan or Iraq— _would be impressed or scared by the face reflected back at John in the window now.

_ Please God, let me live. _He has, twice. Just not how he expected.

"So what, then?" he asks, and he's a bit surprised to hear the words aloud. They're directed at his reflection as much as the man beside him.

Sherlock gives a thoughtful hum. "I think that we dealt Moriarty a greater blow than we realized, back at the pool." He glances over at John for a brief moment, because they still don't talk about it, really, and John's not keen to start now. Sherlock continues in an absent, level tone that John recognizes as his thinking voice, deductive reasoning stripped of showy presentation or sarcastic insult. "Physically, I mean. I suspect he was badly injured, perhaps even paralyzed in some capacity. I think that he's gone so deeply into hiding because he's unable to play, not because the game is finished. He must be physically damaged enough to prevent him continuing his plans. Not dead, though—he couldn't possibly have died, not without me hearing of it, or Mycroft getting wind. Still capable of giving orders, then, but not of executing them himself. Someone has taken over day-to-day operations, a right-hand man, with all of the information, but not the ability. He's the one behind this."

It's more information than John expected. He's still trying to process it when the cab halts at the kerb; he pays the cabbie, glances over her features out of habit, and then dashes after Sherlock to the door. They trip into the entryway and shake the rain off. Sherlock unwinds his scarf from his neck and reaches for John's jacket, hangs them both on the rack Mrs. Hudson left by the stairs. John feels freer without the wet fabric gripping his chest. He leans against the wall for a second-remembers a desperate fit of giggling, the high of adrenaline, the ease of his stance—and looks Sherlock over.

"What?" Sherlock murmurs, cocking his head.

John can feel the rain as an ache in his shoulder, and his hand still shakes sometimes; remnants of the pool, the little physical reminders of Moriarty and The Game that he carries with him every day.

Sherlock has the damage too, though it's in the layers of his brain and in his eyes, so deep John can't fully grasp it. But they're both still standing, here in the hallway of their home, wet from the rain and tired from the thrill, three months after the fact.

"That could have been us," he says helplessly, and his shoulder aches with the words.

They watch each other for a long, weighted minute, and John wonders what the other man sees. All he can see is Sherlock—friend and flatmate and nuisance and greatness all wrapped up in one—and that's all he expects.

"No, John." The words startle him and their eyes meet again.

"It could have been _me," _Sherlock tells him. "It could never have been us. And I never thanked you for that."

John can't imagine what that means, entirely, but the words settle into his chest and end up resting there as comfort. He's calm and sore and tired and free of shaking, and this time at least, it wasn't them.

"You never had to," he says with a shrug. The words are as true as he can make them.

Sherlock smiles a little, gestures up the stairs, and the mood breaks into something lighter and more manageable. John tromps up after him. "I'm making tea," he says to Sherlock's back, "And you're having some."

Sherlock's shoulders shake in a silent chuckle, which is as good as an agreement.

_Life may soar, and Fortune deign  
To explain  
Where her prizes hide and stay;  
But we lack the lusty train  
We should gain,  
If it could be always May._

The whole thing blows up on Monday morning, and after an all-night stakeout in a bank vault and some seriously impressive tunnel-digging by the robbers, John thinks this is going to be a hell of a blog entry. Sherlock is already coming down from his case-solve rush, and so John accepts Lestrade's offer of a lift home and pushes Sherlock into the car before he can protest.

"So you're telling me," Lestrade says with such exaggerated patience that John suspects he's doing it to get a rise, "That I just arrested the third-smartest man in London, and he didn't even _plan _the bloody thing?"

Sherlock rolls his head across the headrest like it weighs about thirty pounds, and gives Lestrade a glare somewhat lacking in force, since his eyes are half-closed. "John Clay is guilty of three murders, and the attempted robbery of a bank. He was quick, I'll give him that, but it wasn't enough. My work was quite sound; even the Yard's usual levels of incompetence can't prevent his conviction." Lestrade catches John's eyes in the rear view mirror, eyebrows raised tellingly, and John has to duck his head to hide a grin from Sherlock.

"But he isn't the fish we're after," Sherlock continues tiredly, and the mood sobers. They're quiet until they pull up outside of 221B. Sherlock gives a lazy wave in Lestrade's direction and steps out onto the drying street. John hangs back for a moment and reaches to shake Lestrade's hand around the seat. "Thanks."

"Ta." Lestrade grips John's hand a moment and tilts his head. "Pint tomorrow?"

"Absolutely." John gets out as well and stomps his right foot on the pavement to work the cramp from his leg. The damp air is cold on his skin. Lestrade suddenly sticks his head out the window and says, "Oi! Hang on a minute. How _did_ he knowabout the tunnel?"

John stuffs his hands in his pockets and thinks about it, running the last few days through his head. Sherlock never said, but John hasn't been out of his sight in days, so surely...

"The sidewalk," he realizes. He laughs at his own stupidity, because of course, the _sidewalk. _"The walk in front of Wilson's shop was over a hollow space. Sherlock dropped his riding crop on it twice, to be able to hear it. No wonder-"

"His _what?_" Lestrade looks vaguely horrified, but then he shakes his head and settles back into his seat. "Right, don't want to know." John grins at him, and because Sherlock is safely out of earshot, Lestrade smiles back and shakes his head again. "It was nice work."

John takes the compliment, for both Sherlock and himself, with a little nod. "See you tomorrow. Get some rest."

Lestrade gives him something like a salute and pulls away. John's still chuckling when he goes inside.

"Sherlock!" he calls out as he clamors up the stairs. "I'm starved! Why don't we-"

He stops abruptly at the sitting room door, because Mycroft is sitting in John's chair, looking very put-together and also very tense. His fingers are _tap-tap-tapping _against the handle of his umbrella in some kind of complex, manic rhythm that strikes John as vaguely familiar. Their eyes meet and Mycroft inclines his head. "Good morning, John. Sorry to intrude."

John never, ever expected to hear those words leave Mycroft's mouth. He clears his throat and bobs a little nod that probably looks ridiculous. "No problem. Good to see you." Mycroft smiles back, thinly, and it's only then that John looks for Sherlock.

He's sitting on the sofa, elbows propped on his knees, fingers stapled under his chin. There is a manilla file on the coffee table, and John sees photos and a few pieces of printed paper.

"John," Sherlock says quietly, without looking up, "Come look at this."

And John knows. It's something in Sherlock's voice, the set of his shoulders, the _calm _that's settled into the air around him for the first time in three months. It's finished, or nearly, and John feels the world unwind around him.

John joins him on the sofa, sits close enough for their arms to brush, and looks down at the photos. Despite having some idea of what he'd see, his breath catches.

Even the two clearest photos are a little grainy—a wide shot and then a digitally reinforced closeup. John has no idea what they were taken with, because the angle is high and oddly tilted, unsteady.

And there is Jim Moriarty, in the flesh. He's in a wheelchair now, and the wider shot shows him a little hunched over, swaddled by a blanket, as a tall suited man and an elderly woman in scrubs move to load him into an unmarked white van outside a nondescript country house.

The close-up shows Moriarty's form, half-hidden by the bulk of the other man's shoulder. His face is horribly burned. Mostly on the right side, it seems, and the skin has begun to heal and scar; Moriarty's mouth is pulled up on that side in a permanent, horrible grin, frozen and twisted. His hand is curled into a tight fist on his lap, and John wonders if it's due to impotent rage or paralysis. His eyes, even indistinct and grainy as they are in the picture, are still alive with the deep, _insane _intelligence that made him intimidating, but his face is sallow and waxy where it isn't damaged, and the overall effect is one of_...pity. _John feels it in his gut, like a sudden drop. The look now burned onto Moriarty's face looks something like _surprise._

"Who is he?" Sherlock asks, tapping the other man's shoulder in the close-up. John startles at his voice and looks up to see Sherlock focused on his brother.

"Former-Colonel Sebastian Moran," Mycroft provides. His fingers cease their tapping. "Discharged with honors, accomplished marksman with any number of weapons, and quite the big game hunter in his spare time, apparently. Also something of a compulsive gambler."

Sherlock turns to John, and for once John knows exactly what he's thinking. "He lost," he says with certainty, and he can feel his mouth lifting into a hard-edged smile.

"As good as," Sherlock agrees, and he's smiling too. "Moran could be an issue. It's not over yet."

The thought makes John warm inside, instead of afraid. _Us or them, _he thinks, and with Sherlock here beside him, it hardly seems a contest. "We'll manage them."

"You will indeed," Mycroft agrees, and the moment breaks.

John stands abruptly, but Sherlock stays where he is, head turned towards his brother, eyes narrowed. John watches them watch each other for several long beats.

Mycroft has not come back to Baker Street since that night John found him standing in the snow without his umbrella. John thinks he knows why, now. Mycroft watches Sherlock evenly, and his fingers are entirely still. He seems to be waiting.

Sherlock's eyebrows raise in sudden understanding, and Mycroft gives a minute flinch. An entire conversation seems to pass between them, and John can't understand a word of it, but he can feel the tone of the room change all at once.

"You look terrible, Mycroft." The words are shaped as an insult, but Sherlock's delivery is almost _gentle, _and Mycroft's shoulders relax all at once. He leans back into his chair and crosses one leg over the other, and for the first time since the pool, he seems himself again. _Quite the brother, _John thinks with something like admiration, and he's not sure which one he means.

"Yes, Sherlock, thank you for the reminder," Mycroft says sardonically.

John smiles and heads for the kitchen. He is halfway through rinsing a mug out in the sink when it hits him, and he stares down at the water running over his fingers, seeing something else instead.

Nothing has changed, really—Moriarty is still out there, still dangerous despite his handicap. Moran will be a danger, and Sherlock's list of enemies is great enough without them.

They will always be in danger. John will never have a day without the threat of dying in it, not as long as he knows Sherlock Holmes and walks beside him and blogs about him at day's end.

There will always be another Moriarty. If he has learned one thing from these last three months, it is that this Work, this Game, is never finished. Not for Sherlock, at least, and so not for John.

The realization should be terrifying and paralyzing and absolutely crippling with its finality. And maybe it will be, in the dark of nights when John wakes up from yet another nightmare, or when they get just a shade too close to the line of death and life they flirt with nearly every day, or when John still can't finish a decent date without Sherlock barging in.

But right now, all John can feel is relief, because the clarity of his sight and the steadiness of his hands have become the constants of his life, and now he knows they will remain for as long as he chooses to allow them.

"John? You alright?"

Sherlock's voice snaps him out of his reverie and he realizes that he's smiling aimlessly at the running water. He finishes up the mug and reaches for a cleanish cloth to wipe it dry. "I'm fine," he answers, and he is.

He turns to face the Holmes brothers and smiles easily. "Stay for tea, Mycroft?"

Mycroft smiles and says,"Thank you, that would be lovely."

Sherlock makes a disgusted noise and throws himself onto the sofa, and John can't stop smiling for the life of him. Mycroft stays for tea, and John manages to make Sherlock eat something. And late that night John sits in front of his laptop, fingers poised over his keys, and writes their lives with steady hands.

* * *

**Author's Note: This chapter proved difficult (seems to be a theme with this little set, doesn't it?) and I am not entirely sure how it ended up. Glad to hear your thoughts as always, and I am of course grateful for your reading time. William Earnest Henley gets the original title and the stanzas, Conan Doyle, Moffat and Gattis get the characters, and I get whatever blame remains. An epilogue is still to come. Cheers!**


	4. May Envoy

_**May **_

_**(Envoy)**_

_Time, the pedagogue, his cane  
Might retain,  
But his charges all would stray  
Truanting in every lane -  
Jack with Jane -  
If it could be always May. _

The first week of May, Sherlock gets a letter: a real honest-to-God, sent-from-who-knows-where on absurdly expensive paper, precious gems probably crushed into the postmark kind of letter. It's from an independent client so wealthy and prestigious that they failed to even give their name for fear of revealing too much.

They missed the mark entirely on that score. John wonders at the kind of pretentiousness that demands someone send an actual message (one that can be traced and considered and _deduced_) just to arrange a video chat. It's showy to the point of being ludicrous. An email or a text would have served them a bit better, all said, because even though the words would have been just as revealing, the message itself would have held less _personality _to be picked apart. This note may be typed, but that doesn't give it one bit of anonymity when Sherlock is on the receiving end. He's probably already deduced the sender's age and weight from the grain of the paper.

This person may want Sherlock's help, but they clearly have no idea who they're dealing with. The thought makes John smile a little. No one ever does the first time.

When Sherlock hands him the letter and its envelope, John looks them over and tries to think like a consulting detective without looking like an idiot. A phrase halfway through the note catches his eye. "'We have heard of you good recommendations,'" he reads out, thoughtfully. "That sounds like someone ran it through a translator and pasted it in."

Sherlock's lips twitch into a smile. "Well done. Originally written in German, obviously."

"Obviously," John agrees with a grin. At some point in the last half a year the word has become an in-joke for them. He still remembers that first time clearly: _Well, it's not obvious to me. _Sherlock's deductions are still a mystery to John more often than not these days, even though he watches them and writes about them and tries to follow lines of logic fast enough to keep up. He'll never get used to Sherlock's utter brilliance, even though he trusts it, and he privately accepts that's probably for the best.

Sherlock would explain if John asked, but he chooses not to this time. He hands the letter back for further examination. Sherlock settles into his armchair and plays the envelope between his fingers.

"The date for the video setup is tomorrow," John points out unnecessarily, just to break the silence.

Sherlock gives him a look that articulates an insult, even though he only says, "I know."

"Are you going to take it?"

Sherlock hums thoughtfully. "What do you think?"

John can't quite believe he heard those words. He clears his throat and shakes his head, as if to dislodge water from his ears. He sits down on the arm of the couch and stares. "Wait, sorry, did you just _ask my opinion _about a case?"

That earns him a haughty raised eyebrow, which means Sherlock is uncomfortable and doing a bad job hiding it. "I always value your opinion, John."  
_Really, _he wants to say, but the word stops in his mouth at the steady, quiet look on Sherlock's face. _Oh._ Really.

John looks away to gather his thoughts and shifts on the sofa arm. He notices the sun outside and thinks inanely that it's going to be summer before they know it. It's about time. He's tired of being cooped up. He can't quite manage to collect himself; he turns his attention back to Sherlock and tilts his head. "What would you do," he asks slowly, feeling the words out, "If I said no? If I said I didn't think it was a good idea."

Sherlock tilts his head as well, and they look at each other a moment. Sherlock's gray eyes are narrowed in thought. He leans back in his chair and rests one foot on the opposite knee; his fingers come up and steeple at his chest, and the sunlight from the window catches in his hair. It strikes John quite suddenly that _this, _this right here, this picture, is the one people are going to think of when they hear the name Sherlock Holmes a hundred years from now.

The notion doesn't surprise him at all. They _will _hear the name, long after both of them are dead and gone, because John is going to make sure of it. He can't entirely grasp the scope of that thought—it feels bright in his head, hard to hold, and it's already sliding away when Sherlock straightens again.

His words are careful, deliberate, and John can feel him weighing them as they're spoken. "At this juncture, I would be extremely...hesitant...to embark on a course of action which you considered unwise, John."

That...is rather more than John had been expecting. It's quite a lot, actually.

"Do you think it's him?" He doesn't say the name _Moriarty, _largely because it no longer seems necessary.

Sherlock sighs and slouches in his chair a little, but he holds John's gaze. "I don't know."

John appreciates the honesty in that answer, painful as it was for Sherlock to give. They _don't know_, and they probably never will, and...well.

That's really not any different than usual for them, is it.

"I think we should take the case," he says, and Sherlock matches his smile.

The next day, John hovers behind Sherlock's shoulder while the laptop boots and the video chat loads. When the dark figure on the other end of the screen appears, it's easy to see that it's a man, but his face is blurred with some kind of pixelating effect.

His voice, when it speaks, is heavily garbled with a modifier. "Mr. Holmes?"

"Yes."

"I had hoped we could speak alone."

John clears his throat and starts to move away, but Sherlock holds up a hand to stop him. He keeps his eyes on the screen. "This is Doctor Watson, my friend and colleague. He's good enough to help me with my cases, from time to time." He glances over at John and gives him the flicker of a smile before looking back at their virtual visitor. John holds his breath.

"Well," the man says at last. "If you will insist."

Sherlock shrugs, as if he has no other option. "It's both or none, I'm afraid." He looks over again and there's definitely a smile there, this time. "Have a seat, John. Now, how can I help your Majesty today?"

John sits abruptly; Sherlock shoots him an amused glance and returns his attention to the conversation.

_Both or none. _It's true, of course, and it has been since they met, since _Nice shot _and _You're an idiot _and _Dr. Watson will be taking the room upstairs_. But in Sherlock's voice the words seem new, like the beginning of something. John takes a deep breath to let his thoughts settle; he glances at the bright sunshine outside and the long lines of light on the wallpaper.

_Enough, _he tells himself, and he lets it will be time later—days and months, and possibly even years—to think about all this. At least John hopes there will. Worry can find them another day, through Moriarty or Moran or anything else, and they'll deal with it then. For now, they have work to do. John clears his throat and leans forward, and returns his attention at last to the case at hand.

* * *

**Author's Note: Well, there it is, completed and done with. This fic proved to be both challenging and fun to write, and I always appreciate the opportunity to delve into the characters given to us by Doyle, and re-envisioned by Moffat and Gattis. Your reading time is always appreciated, and your comments (whether compliment or critique) are always welcome because they keep me on my toes. Until next time, enjoy your spring weather and have a cup of tea. Cheers!**


End file.
